


Photograph

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and a book of photographs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photograph

Elsie wanders along the bookshelves, scanning them, waiting for something to catch her eye. She's just finished the Virginia Woolf stories and was disappointed to see there wasn't any other books by her; hopes she'll keep writing, hopes she'll perhaps produce a novel or two, at least. She hates it when she discovers an author only to find the body of work is thin, that she only gets a taste of what they had to offer. Thinks it's a crime to deny the world that type of brilliance, is jealous of that sort of special talent.

She's never had any special talents, really. Making beds, dusting shelves, scrubbing floors aren't exactly talents. Are hardly even skills. Her fingers skim over spines but nothing is calling her name; she finds herself further down than usual, in the collection of lithograph books, fine art reproduction folios. A title catches her eye and she squints at it, crouches down to free it gently from its brethren. It's a book of architectural engravings, apparently; she begins to page through it absently.

Surprisingly enough, the sketches and plates aren't of grand estate homes like Downton, but of modest cottages, normal little homes with little gardens. She smiles. There's something whimsical about finding such a book in this fine, impressive library. A bit like finding a wildflower growing between the cracks of a sidewalk. Elsie sinks down onto a nearby sofa, pages through the pictures carefully. Her smile widens. Each little home seems warmer, snugger than the last and she's distracted, lost in her thoughts when a voice rumbles behind her, cracks the quiet. She jumps a bit, turns, gives him the benefit of her smile.

"Oh, Mr. Carson, I didn't hear you come in. I was just looking at this book."

He glances down over her shoulder, lifts the heavy brows. "Architecture, Mrs. Hughes? Not your usual fare."

"No, but this is just so charming. All of these lovely little houses, houses for regular people." So what if her voice is a little dreamy? So what if she sounds a little envious of those normal people? Sometimes living at Downton is like living in a huge mausoleum; it's so big and often so empty that her steps ring for yards on hard cold floors, her voice echoes in rooms the size of her entire childhood home. There is a certain dead quality to Downton that she hates; it can never be filled with messy, bustling, breathing life the way a cottage or farmhouse or flat is.

He's leaning now, leaning on his forearms on the back of the sofa to watch as she turns the pages. She points out one she likes, he reaches down to tap the engraving of one he finds nice. Her voice is wistful when they discuss how well-built the homes look. "It's so clever, designing houses. Figuring how everything should fit just so. I was thinking earlier that it must be lovely to have talent. I never did, I've always been a bit jealous of that."

"You have talent, Mrs. Hughes. And some to spare." His voice is low, round with warmth, and she blushes a little. Is unsure of what exactly he means, of why he is saying it. They don't give one another compliments, not really. They compliment the work the other does, a particularly good decision. It's rare that they remark on personal attributes. She clears her throat, turns the page.

The cottage on the next page makes them both smile. It's idyllic, a little vine-covered house with a cat on the doorstep, a pebble path; there is a lovely shade tree growing next to it, a neatly-tilled garden beneath what looks to be the kitchen window. Windows a-plenty to let in the sunshine, nice strong brick to keep in the heat during the winter. She can easily imagine snugging up during the coldest days on a love seat with a throw tucked around her, a cup of tea next to her, a cat curled nearby. She frowns. Her little daydream is haunted by something, by a specter, by an incomplete.

Carson reaches down again to tilt the book so he can see better, she can feel his breath against her neck for the briefest of moments. "Yes, I like this one. Enough room for a proper flower garden." He smiles. "And a cat. Do you like cats?"

Elsie smiles a little, nods. "I do, very much. We always had two or three hanging about on the farm. They're nice, undemanding animals." Wonders why he's asking, wonders why she feels hollow inside now, wonders where all the warmth of this little interlude fled to. Why her thoughts of her own home, her own cottage left her bereft and aching inside.

His voice has softened again, become more tender, has a note of longing in it that she doubts he recognizes but she doesn't have much time to ponder on it because his words are washing over her like a warm wave on a summer beach and she's breathless with shock. Surprised by joy.

"I like them, too, my mother was fond of cats. We'll get one, then."

Elsie's fingers curl around the edges of the book and she turns on the sofa, slowly, so slowly, twists her body around so she can look up at him and he's leaning there over her and his eyes are serious, so serious, there's nothing teasing or laughing or lighthearted or dreaming in those dark grey depths and she blinks, licks her lips nervously.

"Mr. Carson?"

He considers her for a long moment, touches her face lightly with one big warm hand.

"Or two."

A curl has fallen over his forehead from the immaculately arranged and pomaded wave and she reaches up, smooths it back with soft fingers.

"Two. Let's have two."


End file.
